


a trail of breadcrumbs

by matchaball



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Baked Goods, Baking, Comfort Food, Cookies, Cooking, Dancing and Singing, Dessert & Sweets, Disney Songs, F/M, Fluff, Food, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Home, Short & Sweet, perhaps a good read for a rainy day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchaball/pseuds/matchaball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell, now familiar and woven through with fond experiences, shoots through Adrien like a lightning bolt. One inhale unearths the memory of chocolate chip dots and smudged icing sugar, of melted chocolate and the weight of flour, of cinnamon and air kisses. They wash up in the shore of his mind, all a jumble and yet uniquely distinct, as vivid and tactile as the originals. </p><p>It's not the place, he realizes, but the people. The smells, the warmth, the laughter. The fact that they pat at the empty spot as if he’d always been there. As if they’d always been waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fruit tarts and gougère

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thank you to [paperskirts](http://paperskirts.tumblr.com/), [ghostbananas](http://ghostbananas.tumblr.com/), and [gabzilla-z](http://gabzilla-z.tumblr.com/) for so patiently listening to me as I fretted incessantly about this. Wrote this during a particularly horrid week where I needed a distraction and something cheerful to focus on. 
> 
> After I wrote this, I found the most handy map where everyone is located. If you’re familiar with said map, I just ask that you conveniently forget about it for this fic; although, in fairness, I can speak from first hand experience that it _is_ possible to get lost within your own neighbourhood even after living there for over a decade. Also, this was all written before Origins aired so tiny details are no longer canon compliant.
> 
>  **UPDATE:** Now with [fantastic fanart](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/post/143728457759/thanks-marinette-he-can-hear-the-smile-in) by the incredible [kwamikwami](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/)!

The first time Adrien comes in, it’s an accident.

He’s wandering around the streets of Paris in a vaguely familiar district and Plagg is no help and all noise, composed of insistent mutterings on how unbelievably hungry he is instead. For such a tiny creature, Plagg has an appalling appetite that puts the amount any growing teenage boy can pack down to _shame_. Whether Plagg’s grousing is truly necessary or more for dramatics, Adrien still isn’t entirely sure; likely, for Plagg, it’s both. Adrien knows him to be ridiculously contrary that way.

The black kwami is a relentless hum of noise in Adrien’s shirt pocket, a source of both comfort and growing exasperation. The street signs point them both nowhere, and Adrien walks in circles along crowds of people.

He wishes he could transform into Chat and leap up onto the rooftops to gain his bearings. That is the part of Paris he knows by heart after many patrols and a number of battles. That is the part of Paris he’s seen and felt with the pounding of his own two feet and twirl of his staff.

“Adrien, if I don’t get some cheese soon, I may _die_.” A tiny voice floats up to him, accompanied by the smallest poke against his chest. Adrien resists the urge to poke the lump in his shirt pocket back in retaliation. Plagg would only bite him.

“I highly doubt that since there’s several new wheels of Camembert for you back home,” Adrien hisses.

“And home is how far off?”

As if that isn’t the question Adrien’s been trying to answer for the better part of his afternoon. When he gave the Gorilla the slip just after lunch, he expected to end up at the movies, sharing a bag of the cheesiest popcorn he could get with Plagg. He hadn’t expected to end up hopelessly lost instead in a part of his city that he _should_ know; but doesn’t.

He never could slip away from the Gorilla long enough to get anywhere exciting, and he never really wanted to either until Plagg came into his life. Becoming Chat didn’t just give him power. It gave him freedom of movement; and most importantly, it gave him a friend.

(Plagg would moan about the sentimentality of that statement but his theatrics don't hide the fact that he is rather fond of his chosen. Adrien, appropriately, is not above cheesiness.)

It also apparently revealed a terrible sense of direction. No wonder his baton came with a map.

Plagg’s plaintive question goes unanswered and Adrien’s just about to give in and sheepishly call the Gorilla for a pick-up when the _most_ incredible smell wafts under his nose and wraps around his head.

He stops dead in the street, but it doesn’t appear to be an uncommon reaction. Several passerby similarly lift their noses in the air to deeply inhale the warm aroma of baking bread and sugary fragrance of frosted pastries.

Whatever growl his own stomach might’ve made is quickly drowned out by Plagg’s hungry hum. Adrien follows his nose down the street and around the corner to an unfamiliar boulangerie-pâtisserie, but to a very familiar name. _Dupain-Cheng_ glitters at him in gold against black and he walks in the open door with no further prompting.

The place is empty of people but not of food, and Adrien actively swallows again and again as his eyes feast upon displays and rows and trays of quiches, tarts, éclairs, macarons, croissants, and so many more delectable treats that he doesn’t know by name but very much wants to know by taste.

Laughter rings loud and clear from the back where Adrien can’t see, and it’s as heartwarming as the mouthwatering aroma around him. The back door swings open, and familiar black hair pulled into neat pigtails is the first thing he sees as Marinette backs out the door, laughter still falling from her lips.

She twists around and nearly drops the tray in her hands at the sight of him, her laughter caught in her throat and her blue eyes growing wide.

“A-Adrien! Hi! Hi, sorry, were you long waiting? Waiting long? Were you waiting for a while?” She trips, both over her words and over her feet as she hurries to the front cashier to help him. Her tray almost slams down on the counter, nearly upsetting the neat rows of fruit tarts before Adrien’s hands shoots out to steady her.

“You ok?” he asks in concern, and his hands don’t leave her arms until she feels steady again.

“Fine! Very! Very fine.” She huffs, almost to herself, and straightens up to properly address him. A wide, welcoming beam grows on her face and Adrien smiles kindly back. “Were you looking for something? To eat, that is?”

A very small but sharp poke on his chest reminds him exactly of who he has to feed. He nods absently, his gaze sliding around the space and taking in the many treats that make his own mouth water.

“You have anything cheesy, by any chance?” he asks hopefully, even as he eyes a large cream puff he knows his nutritionist would have a conniption over if she caught him eating one.

Marinette nods vigourously. “Maman just finished a fresh batch of gougère actually! If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I can get some for you.” Her cheeks become progressively redder as she talks but her voice is steady, even as her fingers fiddle with the tarts on the tray.

“I’m not in a rush.” A lie, probably, but his phone hasn’t gone off with any calls and Adrien wants to linger in the company of warm food and a familiar, welcome friend. “Can I help you with anything in the meantime?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it!” His polite offer seems to jumpstart her into motion and she pulls the tray over to an empty display on the side. Her fingers are nimble as she transfers the tarts, carefully arranging them on the silver plate, and the familiarity of her actions reflect in her unconscious grace.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen fruit tarts like those before,” Adrien comments as he watches her. He’s genuinely curious about the small tarts filled with creamy custard and topped with thin slices of glistening fruits; but more, he wants to keep talking to Marinette, in this place where she seems a little more at ease with him. Or, at least, understandably coherent.

Her blue eyes dart over to read his expression, and whatever she finds prompts a small grin that lights her up. She picks the next small fruit tart off the tray and offers it to him instead of placing it on the display tray.

“They’re not French,” Marinette admits, and her proud smile holds a secret tucked in its edges. “We make them off a recipe from Maman’s side of the family.”

Adrien hesitates then takes the tart, his long fingers brushing against hers for a moment. Her cheeks flare a rosy hue but he’s got the treat before she can drop it.

He almost groans as he sinks his teeth into the first bite and he wonders why Plagg can’t eat these in abundance instead.

“This is incredible!”

“They’re, uh, usually made with cantaloupe slices, kiwis, and mangos but we use apples, pears and oranges instead. The sugar glaze we use works well on all fruits though, and the hardest part is not making a mess of the chocolate shell beneath the custard.” She points to the other tarts on the tray and though she sounds like she’s on the verge of rambling, Adrien is thoroughly invested as he takes small, neat bites of the palm-sized tart in his hands.

“Your parents ok with you giving away trade secrets like this?” he jokes.

“I’m not afraid of the competition,” she retorts, and the sparkle in her eyes dips her response into a tease rather than a bite.

The cadence of her voice and the easy play in her words feel faintly familiar, but he swallows the thought the same time he polishes off his treat.

“I could be the most amazing baker and you’d never know.”

Something in his lighthearted tease has Marinette visibly backtracking, and she flushes as she waves her hands madly in the air. “No! I mean, I’m sure you’re great in the kitchen. At baking. I’m sure you’re great- perfect, really, at everything you try.”

The compliment is both flattering and unsettling, and Adrien wonders if this is why she always seems so flustered around him. He’s not sure if he wants to laugh or bury his head in his arms because he is the _furthest_ thing from perfect. The very thought is, at best, a dismal joke, even by his standards.

“I’m really not,” he attempts a smile, then remembers exactly how he wound up at the boulangerie-pâtisserie in the first place. His smile settles more naturally as he runs with the train of thought. “I… actually, uh, got away from my ride and was doing some exploring but got pretty lost. I don’t suppose you guys sell maps too?”

Marinette blinks owlishly at him, still red around the edges, and then giggles. “We don’t but- really, you’re lost?”

“Bad case of luck. Unfortunately.”

She hums in thought before abandoning the mostly empty tray in front of her to rummage under the counter. A few palette knives, some loose change, and a paintbrush spill beside the tray as she unearths whatever is down there. After a moment, she comes back up, her cupped hands filled with thick white powder. The tray is nudged carefully aside before she dusts the countertop in a neat, even layer.

“Icing sugar,” she explains to his curious expression as she rubs her hands to brush off the excess powder clinging to her skin. “We keep some nearby if a few pastries need touching up.”

The tip of her pointer finger drags through the blank canvas of the countertop, drawing a clean line through. She marks down streets and landmarks in quick succession and with unerring precision, and the end result is as beautiful as it is practical. Her hand swipes against her cheek before wiping against her apron in an unconscious move clearly born from long habit.

“So here’s where we are…”

She takes him through each part of her improvised map, only stumbling when she points out where she drew his house. After a moment, an idea lights her blue eyes up and she whips down behind the counter to grab a small container of chocolate chips. The row of carefully placed tiny dots march through the powdery streets, leading the way home.

The world rights itself up as Adrien studies the map and listens to Marinette, and he feels sure of where he needs to go. Just in case though, he snaps a quick photo with his phone and he smiles to himself as he reviews the image.

The map is not particularly extraordinary, but she made it for him complete with little quirks and flourishes; and for that he finds it special.

“Thanks, Marinette.” He can hear the smile in his voice as he tucks his phone away. When he looks up, she’s smiling too, with a streak of white marking the pink of her cheeks. “You’ve got some frosting on you, right there.”

He taps the spot on his own cheek and she groans before rubbing her face with the backs of her hands. The powder smears across her cheeks even more instead and Adrien shakes his head as his amusement bubbles up in a chuckle.

“It’s not coming off, is it,” Marinette sighs good-naturedly, turning the question into resigned acknowledgement.

“Not really,” Adrien grins. “Though you could say it’s just the icing on the cake.”

His joke is met with a gaping mouth and a look that wars between incredulous and sputtering. Adrien turns the pun over in his mind. It hadn’t been _that_ bad. Maybe it was even a little offensive? He did just call her a cake and though he only meant the best by it, perhaps it had not been the most polite thing to say to her.

“I’m.” The croak emerging from Marinette’s mouth is more sound than actual word. “I’m, uh, going to check if the gougère is ready.”

Her rush to the back door almost upsets the neglected tray of fruit tarts but Adrien catches a corner and draws it towards him. His contrite gaze lingers where Marinette disappeared and a faint rolling of unease and confusion undulates at the bottom of his stomach.

Not one to stand idle, he picks up the remaining fruit tarts one by one and sets them on the display. Each one is handled carefully by his long fingers and he takes his time in admiring the presentation of each prepared tart. Clearly artistry runs strong in the Dupain-Cheng family, and he needn’t look further for proof than the creations that surrounded him.

The map on the counter catches his eye once more and he chuckles to himself as he sets the last tart down. He steals a chocolate chip from the path Marinette marked down and tucks it into his mouth, savouring the dot of bittersweetness on his tongue.

The back door opens again and a much calmer Marinette walks out, her pink cheeks clean of icing sugar, and a brown paper bag with the most deliciously warm and cheesy smell wafting from it held in her hands. Adrien can almost hear the hungry whine Plagg is holding back.

“A-all set then?” she asks, her words tripping slightly as she sets the bag by the cashier. Like a cloud blotting the sky, her flustered expression reminds him of how easy it had been between them for a moment. But he takes heart that she doesn’t seem put off by his earlier joke and holds that thought to keep as he nods before taking his wallet out to pay.

His total rings up and when the bag of small cheesy puffballs rests in his hands, he fights the urge to scarf it all down at once. He doesn’t know how Marinette can work in the bakery and not eat everything; if he was her, he’d be snacking all the time like a glutton. Like Plagg.

As if prompted, a sharp poke to Adrien’s chest reminds him who is impatiently waiting to be fed.

He’s just about to thank Marinette and head out when she abruptly asks him to wait a moment. She pulls a small, flat piece of cardboard from under the cashier and quickly shapes it into a container along the prefolded lines before darting over to the display of fruit tarts and settling four in the box.

The lid’s taped down shut and presented to Adrien before he can ask what she’s doing.

“These make good study snacks. And maybe you could give one to your driver as a peace offering? I made these, so it’s ok if I give them to you. I mean, not that they’re rejects. Just. Um, they’re for you. Not specifically made _for_ you, but I made them, and I’m giving them to you now-”

His hand covers one of hers, stilling her rambling steamroller of an explanation and Adrien can’t believe how much her gesture warms him from the inside out. He wonders if her sweetness is a product of growing up surrounded by delicious breads and pastries, or if perhaps she’s learned how to bake and decorate her own charm into everything else.  

“Thank you, Marinette,” he says quietly, the low volume of his voice giving weight to the gratitude in his eyes and smile. “For the map and the tarts.”

She only nods, and Adrien secures the box gently from her hands, taking care in ensuring he doesn’t accidentally crush the tarts.

“I’ll see you around, then.” He gives her a last smile and turns to walk out the door and into the open street- a street he now knows how to navigate thanks to Marinette. A quick glance back shows Marinette waving goodbye to him, a wide, if somewhat dazed smile stretched across her face.

Adrien lifts the bag back at her in acknowledgement before pointing himself in the right direction to walk on. He places the bag of gougère on top of the box of tarts, freeing one of his hands up to pass a cheese puff to an eagerly waiting Plagg.

“ _Finally_ ,” the black kwami sighs dramatically as he bites into the pastry nearly the size of his head. “Mmm, this is good!”

“Better than Camembert?” Adrien asks, half teasingly, half hopefully.

“Don’t even joke about such a thing,” Plagg sniffs before devouring the rest of his treat. “This is a fair alternative though.”

“High praise!”

Another cheese puff is dropped down into the front pocket of Adrien’s shirt and met with a delighted hum.

Adrien pulls out his phone to consult the map when he reaches a cross-section he’s unfamiliar with, and the sight of icing sugar draws a smile from him once more. He steps on, remembering Marinette’s expressive voice as she pointed out the streets that would lead him home.

Boy and kwami share the bag of pastries between them. The gougère isn’t popcorn, but Adrien prefers how it sits warm and sweet on his tongue like a promise.


	2. éclairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Update:** And even more [fabulous fanart](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/post/143819278404/hey-marinette-adrien-catches-her-attention) by the wonderful [kwamikwami](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/)!

The next memorable time Adrien comes around, he’s blindsided. 

It's not a feeling he's particularly accustomed to. He has, generally, excellent vision; even better when he's Chat. It helps him little though in the face of his calendar that is crammed with school and extracurriculars and photoshoots. Every moment is blocked out meticulously to the point where Adrien could go through the motions in his sleep.

And in the wake of some of the longer patrols or lengthy akuma attacks, he's grateful that he's so sure-footed even when bone weary.

There’s a rhythm to his day, and it’s in the sharp quickstep to his tightly arranged schedule. He knows the steps better than the back of his own hand and while routine is familiar, assuring, it is also boring.

Tiny moments like walking back to school during lunch break are when Adrien feels less like the model son, nothing like the superhero, and everything like a normal teenage boy without a care in the world.

The mashup of jpop songs Nino’s mixed specially for him thumps to an irregular beat in his ears and adds a bounce to his step. An itch to slide and jump and skip sits restlessly in the pads of Adrien’s feet, but he's too self conscious to dance in the street during the middle of the day under the blinding spotlight of the sun.

He'd rather waltz and jive and spin over the shadowy maze of rooftops at night partnered with Lady Luck swinging alongside him. The tempo of her yoyo’s clicks, the melody of his baton whistling through the air, and the percussion of their synchronized footsteps give music to their improvised dancing.

(His lady would never call it such, but... he's maybe a little bit of a hopeless romantic.)

Adrien doesn't mind the comfort of structure, even if it does become stifling at times, but he'd be lying if he didn't find freestyle to be exhilarating.

Of course, it was always better with company, preferably in the form of the focus of his affections. Adrien doesn't know how Ladybug would feel about jpop though so he takes this particular dance solo.

He dodges around a large truck tucked up against the sidewalk and contemplates whether or not he could get away with a little spin and maybe some skips without anyone seeing when a partner _does_ descend upon him with all the grace of a flour sack.

Which, incidentally, is precisely what falls into his arms and knocks the wind out of him, throwing his momentum off course and leaving him staggering backwards. His hands slip as he desperately tries to keep a hold on the heavy deadweight in his arms. Jpop blares in his ears and he jerks his head around, yanking the earphones out just in time to catch the rumble of a man’s voice asking, “You got it, Sabby? Better use the front, there’s still caramel on the ground here you could slip on.”

Left with few options, Adrien responds with a sort of hum he hopes can pass for ‘Sabby’s’ and sidles carefully down the street until the familiar glass windows of the Dupain-Cheng boulangerie-pâtisserie come into view.

He breathes a sigh of relief and pushes his way in the front door, the flour sack dragging his arms down and making his strained muscles burn. He’s no slouch, especially with the amount of parkour and fighting he does on the regular, but he doesn’t often heft 40kg for a stretch at a time.

This time, the place is _packed_. People bustle around him and the organized chaos reminds him of photoshoots. With that in mind, he dodges rather successfully around the line forming, slips behind the counter an older Chinese woman is busily managing, and ducks through the door leading to the back.

“Outside sounds like it got crazy, Maman. Do you want me to take the front so you can help unload the truck?”

The sound of Marinette’s voice leads Adrien to a spacious room. Ovens and sinks crowd every inch along the walls, connected by a counter. Center space (which is large enough, Adrien notes, to do silly twirls and uncoordinated dance steps in) is instead filled with two huge tables pushed together, every single surface covered in bare-faced éclairs crowded on flat trays.

Marinette doesn’t even look up as he staggers into the room. Her palette knife whips in and out of the huge bowl of melted chocolate in her arm to spread across each éclair with unerring proficiency.

“Unless did Mme. Ta change her order _again_? I don’t know if I’ll have time to redo these before going back to school.”

This time, she does look up and her blue eyes blow open so wide at the sight of him that Adrien thinks he’s back outside under the clear spring sky. Her mouth drops open and a hefty dollop of chocolate slips off her knife to douse one hapless éclair.

He grins sheepishly at her. “Hi?”

“Adrien!” she blurts, right in sync with the jpop he can just hear still playing through his earbuds. He resists the urge to start tapping his feet to the beat. “I- what are you doing- _oh_ , Papa must’ve-”

Her expression runs through a gamut of emotions while her arms wave around frantically as she connects the dots. More chocolate flies to speckle the bare éclairs.

“Can I put this somewhere?” His respect for bakers grows as his arms feel more and more like they’re going to disconnect from his shoulders.

“Yes! Definitely, of course, follow me.”

Marinette is a whirl of pigtails, apron ties, and flying chocolate drops as she squeezes past him and leads him to another room. The temperature cools considerably as they step in and Adrien heaves the flour sack to an empty spot.

“I’m sorry, Papa must’ve thought you were Maman and just tossed that towards you,” she waves haphazardly to the flour sack and winces as chocolate lands everywhere.

“Is she the one at the front?” Adrien asks curiously as Marinette hurries to wipe chocolate off from the sacks. At her nod, he chuckles, “She and I definitely look alike.”

“Like twins,” Marinette deadpans, not missing a beat as she leads them back to the baking room. Her eyes dart to the large clock on the wall and her groan makes her entire body wilt. “Oh no, if I’m late again Mme. Mendeleiev really _is_ going to do me in.”

“Do you have to finish putting chocolate on those before you go?” Adrien gestures to the army of éclairs awaiting their coats.

“I _should_ …” She wavers, clearly debating the merits of incurring the wrath of their formidable physics and math teacher again.

Adrien doesn’t hesitate when he spots the conflict in her expression. He drops his schoolbag in a corner, snags a spare apron hanging from the door, and loops it around his neck before tying it securely behind his back. After a moment’s thought, he heads decisively to one of the sinks to wash his hands.

“Adrien what-? Oh gosh, no, you don't have to, you don't need to be late, and Mme. Mendeleiev actually _likes_ you-” Despite her protests, Marinette casts harried glances at the waiting éclairs. The clock ticks.

“We’ll work faster if we work together,” he cheerfully points out. “Besides, I’m already here. 

Marinette shifts her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip in indecision before a determined look settles on her face. Her hands fly as she grabs another bowl and pours some of the chocolate from her bowl into it, and her feet race as she grabs another palette knife from one of the many containers on the counter. Adrien nearly goes cross-eyed as she thrusts them under his nose.

“Just add a layer of chocolate to the top right?” he confirms as he takes the bowl. The palette knife sits comfortably in his hand and he sweeps it through the air a couple times, pretending to fence.

“It’s pretty simple,” she nods, and her expressive eyes watch his movements for a few moments. “They’re kind of easy to crush by accident though so… be gentle?” Her voice runs thin at the end of her sentence and when Adrien glances over, concerned, he finds her looking a little dazed.

“Hey,” he gives her a reassuring smile and clasps a hand comfortingly on her shoulder. “We’ll get it done.”

Her shoulder rises and falls as she takes a deep breath. The smile she sends back warms him to the tips of his fingers.

“Start on that end, I’ll start here?” she suggests, motioning with her palette knife. Adrien slides around to the indicated corner and they begin slathering chocolate on the éclairs.

He moves meticulously and carefully and doesn’t even try to match the speed that Marinette whips herself into. His pace gradually picks up as he falls easily into a rhythm.

Working in tandem allows Adrien to feel the steady regularity of their tempo, so much so that the moment Marinette falls out of rhythm, he picks up on it immediately. Her smooth movements edge towards erratic and her eyes fly between her next target, the clock, and him. It doesn’t take Adrien long to see the storm of stress and thought brewing in her mind and he reacts instinctively by offering her a distraction.

“Hey, Marinette,” Adrien catches her attention and, before his self-consciousness catches up to him and his brain informs him that _this is a bad idea_ , lets his words slide off his tongue. He can't sing jpop for the life of him (and he's definitely tried, with Plagg being very vocal about his awful pronunciation), so he defaults to the next best thing. “Let's get down to business! To defeat the _buns_!”

Marinette’s head springs up so fast her pigtails bounce in the air, and she stares slack jawed at him for a moment before panic, of all things, sets in her features.

“Oh no, he'll hear you, _don't_ -”

“Did they send me _dough-ters_? When I asked for _bonbons_?” A familiar rumble booms through the room, the sonorous voice preceding a giant of a man. He steps into the room, huge and graceful, and the beaming smile on his face is all Marinette. “You're the saddest _brunch_ I ever made, but you can _bake_ before we’re _toast_! Mari, I'll make a _flan_ just for you!”

His laughter fills the room like hot air. Marinette deflates, her cheeks apple red and her smile utterly embarrassed. Adrien gapes at this behemoth of a man who just effortlessly picked up his intentions and knocked the song right out of the ballpark.

“ _Papa_ ,” Marinette groans into her bowl and she flicks the hand holding the palette knife at the chortling baker’s direction, spraying him with chocolate.

His eyes only light up more in good humour and he swings around the table to pat Adrien’s shoulder and ruffle Marinette’s hair. His mustache twitches before he continues, boisterously, “Tasty as _le fromage_ , but with _flour_ within!”

This time, Adrien’s feet caves into the impulse to bounce to the beat and he gives into the laughter blooming in his chest. Marinette’s father grins wider at his daughter’s embarrassment and Adrien’s amusement.

“Once you find your _custard_ , you are _sugar_ win!”

Despite the alarming colour lighting her face on fire, Marinette joins in laughing as she continues to coat each éclair with a swipe of her knife, eventually falling into rhythm again with her father’s ridiculous and endearing singing. This time, Adrien matches her beat by beat as he bobs along to the song.

“You're a salty, burnt, uneven _loaf_ , and you haven't got _une croûte_!”

The rich smell of chocolate and bread mingle with the swirl of their laughter and accompany the tapping of their feet and flashing of their palette knives. Adrien mirrors Marinette as they slowly circle around the large tables, leaving gleaming chocolate covered éclairs in their wake.

“Somehow I'll make _le naan_ just for you!” The large baker finishes uproariously before sweeping Marinette up in a twirl, laughing over the sound of her shrieks.

Adrien scrapes the last of the chocolate from his bowl and covers the remaining bare éclairs with a flourish. His cheeks flush from smiles and his belly aches from delicious laughter.

“Good pick,” the baker winks at Adrien, utterly unconcerned with the chocolate Marinette is attempting to smear across his apron. It must be a regular occurrence. “That was her favourite Disney movie when she was young. Favourite song too.”

“Papa!” Marinette’s voice is both mortified and indignant.

“Tom Dupain-Cheng,” the large man introduces himself to Adrien. He sets Marinette gently on the ground and offers a huge hand. His handshake is warm, assuring, more a kind clasp than a calculating grip.

“Adrien Agreste,” Adrien returns politely.

Tom perks up at the name, recognition gleaming from his eyes. Adrien wonders at the glance he sends his daughter, and the way Marinette’s face absolutely burns up in front of him.

“Sabine informed me,” Tom starts, and steps deftly away from Marinette’s yanking at his arm, “that I must've given you the bag of flour meant for her to bring in.” He squints playfully at Adrien for a moment, considering, before nodding. “Easy mistake. You two are identical.”

 Laughter rushes forth like a dam spilling open and Adrien’s positively light headed from just how easy and warm being around this place and family is.

“That would be an honour if it were true,” Adrien replies, a touch bashful in the face of Tom’s extremely kind but large presence. He tamps down the giddiness dancing in his chest into something more courteous and respectful.

“So polite!” A new voice joins them, soothing and mild. Tom’s face lights up and Marinette waves to someone behind Adrien, who turns and spots the short Chinese woman who had been managing the counter. Her smile falls over him like a warm blanket and he can’t help but smile shyly back. “You two best get going if you don’t want to be late for school.”

“Oh no,” Marinette moans as she spots the clock yet again.

“You’ve still got time,” Tom assures her as he plucks the bowl and palette knife from her hands. In one smooth motion, he turns and does the same to Adrien, clearly practiced in handling his daughter’s time management skills. “Thank you for helping Marinette out, Adrien. She’s lucky to have a good friend like you.” A wink punctuates his thanks.

A garbled noise blurts out of Marinette and she nearly trips over her untied apron strings pooling to the ground. From the door, Sabine chuckles knowingly.

“It was fun,” Adrien admits. He unties his apron and hands it over the same time Marinette does before picking up his schoolbag from the corner. “Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, before you go, take this,” Sabine’s gentle voice is the only warning he gets before a large brown paper bag finds a home in his hands. The unmistakeable mouthwatering scent of sugar, butter, chocolate, and bread wafts up. His stomach hollows out instantly, demanding to be filled with pastry goodness at once.

A similar bag is deposited in Marinette’s hands, who receives the goodies without surprise.

“Thank you Maman! Are there-?”

“Extra chocolate croissants for Alya,” Sabine finishes. When she smiles, every line of her face tips up and creases in sincerity. Between her smile and Tom’s laugh, it’s not hard for Adrien to see where Marinette gets her expressiveness and charm from.

“You’re the best.” Marinette presses kisses on her mother’s cheeks before reaching up and bestowing the same to her father.

“Come back again, Adrien,” Tom invites. “Any friend of Marinette’s is always welcome. Feel free to help yourself to anything, on the house.”

It takes Adrien several moments of stunned staring to realize that no, Tom isn’t joking, yes, Sabine’s nodding in agreement, and, gosh, now he knows how to have his own face grow hot enough to power an oven. He clutches the bag in his hand a little tighter and prays the tightening in his chest doesn’t translate into tears. 

“Th-thank you,” he stammers, a little disbelieving, a lot overwhelmed, and wholeheartedly grateful. His gaze slides between the three of them and despite the ingrained knowledge that tells him the polite thing to do is to maintain eye contact, Adrien can’t. He looks at the bag in his hands instead, a safe and impartial focal point. “These smell incredible.”

“You two better run so you can enjoy them before class starts,” Sabine points out.

“Right!” Marinette springs into action, sweeping up her own bag and almost running into the corner of the table in the process. “Let’s get going?”

Adrien glances up into blue eyes and nods. He follows Marinette out the room into the front area and through the front door before falling into step beside her.

“Have you good day you two!” Tom’s boisterous voice trails after them.

“Sorry if that was a bit much,” Marinette sighs as they power walk down the street together. “They’re really good about people - uh, I mean, f-friends coming over and anyway it’s never a proper visit unless they can feed you as much as they can, but that’s sort of their way of saying that they like you-” Her voice squeaks at the end of the sentence and the rest of her sentence is a garbled mumble that Adrien can’t sort out.

“They’re really nice.” He sends her a reassuring smile and resists the urge to bump playfully into her to cheer her up. The smile seems to do the trick though. Marinette blinks, a wide smile growing on her face in return topped with pinkening cheeks before she practically bounces ahead of him.

Adrien watches her pace, prepared to shorten his strides to better accommodate her shorter legs, but he underestimates just how _fast_ Marinette can go. He finds himself lengthening his steps to keep up with _her_.

They get to school and slide into their seats with a few minutes to spare. From behind, Adrien catches Alya’s excited crow at the unexpected treat Marinette slides to her with a laugh.

Nino perks up instantly the moment he catches sight of Adrien, and his eyes grow large behind his glasses at the huge bag in his hands. Any greeting Nino attempts dies when Adrien opens the bag and the aromatic scent of pastries billows into the air.

A deep inhale, and then, “Dude, you must have _everything_ in there.” Another inhale, this time with purpose, followed by a peek into the bag. “You even got some éclairs? Lucky!” 

Adrien digs into the bag for the aforementioned pastry and holds it out to Nino without a second thought. Nino hesitates; not for lack of wanting, Adrien knows, because Nino could inhale éclairs like they were going out of style, but in favour of insisting Adrien keep it in his attempts of completely circumventing his strict diet.

“Go ahead,” Adrien offers, and the gesture rewinds him to Sabine’s kind expression, Tom’s laugh, and Marinette’s smile. Sunlight sinks down and curls in Adrien’s stomach, filling him with the kind of warmth gained from belly aching laughs and whirling dances.

Nino beams and bumps fists with him as he takes the éclair. As chocolate smears messily over Nino’s blissful face, Adrien offers him another, laughing, “They’re better when shared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got completely side tracked for a long time writing this chapter since the moment I knew I was going to pun a Disney song, I went hunting for the perfect one. Mulan was the clear winner early on but coming up with renditions for I Won't Say I'm in _Loaf_ (Hercules), Under the _Brie_ (Little Mermaid), and Ha _kouglof Mousse_ tata (Lion King) made for good, if hilarious, writing all around. 
> 
> Also, researching all sorts of french pastries for these puns was both a joy and a regret. I have never been so hungry while writing a fic. 
> 
> [Check these out](http://www.buzzfeed.com/marietelling/32-french-desserts-that-will-make-you-want-to-pack-everythin#.bxJN4gg7M) and come drool with me.


	3. dumplings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Update:** Thank you so so much [kwamikwami](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/) for drawing the [xiaolongbao moment](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/post/143648460379/the-first-bite-of-xiaolongbao-backfires-on-alya) and the little [moment with Adrien](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/post/149287751874/he-draws-a-cushion-closer-and-anchors-himself)!! :')

The third time Adrien visits, it’s, surprisingly, by invitation and entirely on purpose this time around.

[ _come over to mari’s place tomorrow_ ]

The text pops up innocuously in Adrien’s inbox, and he jumps halfway into an affirmative reply before he realizes it’s Alya who sent the message.

His fingers hover over the screen for a perplexed moment as he wonders if the text had been meant for Nino instead. Another text pings through, saving him from his confusion.

[ _if you leave me to fail physics, i will come after you with permanent hair dye_ ]

Clarity flashes through his mind with little fanfare: that’s right, a date with an akuma had replaced his tutoring session with Alya earlier that week. It completely slipped his mind to follow up with her, but he isn’t surprised that she had forgotten as well up until now.

They both, after all, have a vested interest in the superheroes that show up to save the day.

A brief bubble of amusement balloons in his mind at Alya’s threat and pops promptly when he imagines his father’s face at seeing his hair in blinding technicolour. Hurriedly, he taps on the calendar app on his phone and scrolls through to find his Sunday blessedly free.

Despite the instincts that clambered to an immediate _yes!_ at her very first message, Adrien goes for clarification rather than confirmation.  

[ You want to meet at Marinette’s place? ]

[ _she’s practicing making dumplings and i refuse to miss out on that_ ]

If the feeling in his gut hadn't already been on board with the idea, it’s certainly fast tracking to the boulangerie-pâtisserie now, outpaced only by the shameless hunger of his stomach. Adrien indulges in the briefest thought of savoury meat and broth folded within delicate wrappers glistening with sauce before Plagg unceremoniously shoves a pungent piece of Camembert under his nose, yanking him back to reality.

“If we ever have to face an akuma that cooks, you'll be fried,” Plagg grumbles before wheeling away to snack on his treat.

“Seasoned and sautéed,” Adrien agrees absent-mindedly. “Delicious.” Maybe he should grab an apple from the kitchen to appease his stomach and mind because none of this is helping him formulate his answer to Alya.

Hesitation simmers beneath the hunger; as much as he would love to go back, discomfort stops him from responding positively. His mind tangles over the fact that it is Alya who invites him to Marinette’s, and the thought of whether or not she has the right to do so.

His thought process promptly reins itself up. Even though he and Alya aren't the closest, she's a good enough friend for him to know that while she's shrewd and quick to act, she's also extremely loyal, especially to Marinette. Memory’s fingers come to soothe his worries as he remembers that they have been best friends for years and years, long before he knew either of them.

And if Tom and Sabine had been so welcoming to him from just one meeting, he wouldn't be surprised to find Alya unofficially adopted by them.

Assured and faintly amused at the turn of his thoughts, he taps out his response.

[ Alright that sounds good. Is 11h30 ok? ]

[ _perfect. come hungry!_ ]

Well that certainly wouldn't be the problem. Now that he knows what lies ahead for him in tomorrow, he will seriously have to channel mind over matter to get any work done.

An idle thought nudges at the back of his mind of whether or not Alya purposely planned for competition against their physics work. Adrien chuckles as he inputs an event in his calendar, letting Nathalie know where he'll be tomorrow.

He's lived with the expectation of winning, succeeding in everything he does; but losing seems to promise a certain satisfaction too.

 

* * *

 

The next day greets him with a monotone drizzle that washes the world in a stifling grey. Adrien spends the morning stuffing Plagg with Camembert in hopes of curbing his insatiable desire for more gougère, to limited success. The car ride over to Marinette’s is filled with half baked excuses and explanations for any food or- more likely- cheese that's made a sudden and suspicious disappearance.

Plagg only snickers before burrowing deeper into the inner pocket of his jacket. 

Adrien does not want to be known as the boy who prefers exclusively gougère for the rest of his life. He likes cheese, but undeniably of a different kind than Plagg. He wonders if the kwami understands the meaning of ‘moderation’. 

(“And you call _me_ dramatic,” Plagg snarks. Adrien doesn't dignify him with a reply.)

Walking into the boulangerie-patisserie reminds him of all that is still out there for him to taste and savour. The chorus of buttery croissants and baguettes greets him first, accompanied by delicate notes of fruit, sugar, chocolate, and spices spun in mouthwatering tarts and cakes. Macarons pipe brightly from their dedicated display by the ringing cashier.

In the center of all the colour and noise and smells stands the conductor, who raises her arms to greet him. Everything else falls away into a quiet interlude when Sabine leans up to press air kisses to Adrien’s cheeks, a gesture that echoes in a hollow buried deep within his chest.

But she smells like honey and cinnamon rather than vanilla and rosemary and that's enough to prompt Adrien into following his cue. He kisses her cheeks back in greeting and warms under Sabine’s motherly smile.

“The girls are just upstairs and to the left, in the kitchen,” she tells him before an incoming customer hales her attention.

Adrien leaves her with a quiet murmur of thanks before ducking through the back door and climbing a set of stairs set to the side up to a wide landing.

The door is open just enough to reveal a sliver of light pink and for him to catch a wail of “ _Alya_!” coming from within. He knocks and when no one answers, pushes the door open and gingerly steps in.

Ombré curls fanned out across the back of a pink couch is the first thing Adrien sees. He assumes it’s Alya, since the top of her head barely peeks over the edge of the couch and the rest of her body is obscured by the furniture; that, or Marinette has a very impressive imitation wig of her best friend’s hair.

A quick glance around tells him how very different Marinette’s home is to his: a cozy living room dressed in soft pinks, warm woods, and comfortable fabrics is a far cry from the large, marble echo chamber that’s his front hall. The high kitchen table, visible just around the frame of the staircase to his immediate right, bears a few large colourful mixing bowls, several thin sheets of dough, and a liberal dusting of flour; the cook in question, nowhere to be seen.

Her voice on the other hand is readily apparent. “ _Dieu_ but what am I going to say? I can never think of the right words-  _argh_ \- I can’t even _think_ when I get too close to him! You know what we should’ve done, we should’ve made a script for me because then I would know what to say and I wouldn’t be such a babbling mess and _Alya_ you have to help me out here instead of laughing at me because it’s almost time and _I’m not ready_.” 

The ombré curls shake from the peals of laughter sounding from the couch.

“Mari, Mari, Mari,” Alya chides. “I love you girl, but you need to calm down, especially when you’re so close to a bunch of knives.”

Alarmed, this more than anything is what nudges Adrien into clearing his throat and injecting his presence into the middle of their conversation. Panic and anticipation saturated Marinette’s voice, clearer than the torrent of words that spilled out, and the last thing he wants is for her to accidentally hurt herself from waving hands and tripping feet.

The curls in front of him snap up and Alya’s glasses glint as she whips around to look at him.

“Hey Adrien!” she greets brightly, waving a hand. “We, uh, didn’t hear you come up. Or in.”

Any answer that rises to Adrien’s tongue gets swallowed into a choke as a magnificent crash sounds from his right. Without hesitation, he races around the staircase to find a kitchen tucked against the wall, and Marinette in the process of pulling out and precariously balancing several baking trays.

“Adrien!” she yelps, and her mouth opens and closes a few times at the sight of him. Despite her earlier loquacity, the only sound that fills the air is the drumming of rain against the windows.

Without warning, she slams the baking trays back in the cupboard and hops up straight at the same time, directing a nervous but dazzling smile at him.  

“Hey Marinette.” He relaxes when he doesn’t see any immediate danger. “Do… you need help?”

“I’m fine!” she chirps, and a flush steals over the bridge of her nose as she glances quickly over his shoulder. Her gaze snaps back to his after a moment and she gestures nervously around the kitchen. “Do you eat something to drink? Drink anything? Want some eats?”

He can’t make heads or tails of what she’s saying, so he focuses on what he does know: that the way she scrunches her nose and the way her freckles brighten over the flush of her cheeks is endearing. Adorable, actually.

“I’ll have some warm milk, if that’s ok?” he interjects, saving them both from themselves.

“Ok, yeah, sure!” Marinette sends another look over his shoulder before turning around to the fridge.

Adrien only has a moment of watching Marinette thud her forehead gently against the fridge door instead of opening it before Alya’s voice calls him over to the couch. With a concerned look at Marinette that she doesn’t seem to catch, he slides his bag next to Alya and settles around the low coffee table. Notes scribbled with formulas and writing already sprawl over the surface and a textbook lies forlornly on the floor.

Alya’s dramatic slump over the couch tells him exactly how much she's looking forward to this.

“What can I bribe you with to just trade homework and call it a day?” She wrestles a couch cushion in her hands and glowers at her incomplete papers.

“Jokes on you because I haven’t started yet either,” Adrien chuckles, pulling out his own homework from his bag. He shuffles the papers on the tables into an organized pile and sets his notes out neatly in front of him.

“You mean,” Alya sits up, incredulous and a hint mischievous, “Marinette’s actually beat us both for once in getting physics work done?”

“Hey!” A cry sails over from the kitchen. When Adrien looks up, it’s to catch Marinette pointing at Alya’s head with a glass cup in hand, her expression indignant. “I’m great at completing work on time!”

“Yeah but at what cost?” Alya rolls her hazel eyes but a fond smile plays on her lips. “You’re always so tired that you end up running late to class or taking cat-naps during breaks.”

Adrien sympathizes; he knows how it feels to run on little energy and sleep. His tightly packed schedule of lessons demands a lot from him, and his responsibilities as Chat Noir only steals more time and energy from him at the end of the day. Exhaustion is something he’s learned to cope with.

“You should look after yourself, Marinette,” he offers up, and is rewarded when said girl turns to him with a wide-eyed stare. “If homework’s taking you that long to finish, or if you’re having trouble, I could help if you want?”

“Actually,” Marinette blurts out as she comes over with mugs of steaming milk and hot chocolate for them both, “I’m, uh, working on some new designs which- which is why I’m staying up so late.”

Alya perks up, both at the hot chocolate and the fruits of Marinette’s creativity.

“I want to see!” she declares. Marinette gives a pointed look at the homework scattered across the coffee table. Alya resolutely ignores her. 

Marinette gives a huff and her eyes raise to meet Adrien’s in shared amusement. Her eyes spark with an idea and a sly grin tugs at the corners of her mouth, giving Adrien a moment’s warning of her impending craftiness.

“Finish at least half of this,” she gestures, “and I’ll show you some of the stuff I’m working on _and_ the dumplings should be done then.”

The bait dangles and Alya snatches it with a smug grin.

Patiently working through the logistics of refracted light and reflections flies by with far greater ease and pleasure when cushioned against pink pillows and soothed by gentle clinking and occasional humming from the kitchen. Rain polishing the world outside gives Adrien plenty of examples to explain geometric optics.

He loves that he can even see and hear the rain so closely, that the light that reflects and breaks through the water fills the room with cool light. That the quiet percussion compounds the coziness and warmth of Marinette’s home.

Rain echoes in his own home, a hollow sound. The white rooms are so spacious that the walls always feel like they're pushing out and away, and the distance leaves Adrien cold.

He draws a cushion closer and anchors himself back to the present where there is warm milk and quiet cursing and pink pink pink.

While he waits for Alya to work through a few problems, his eyes drift over to the only other motion in the room. Careful concentration looks like a tongue poking out the corner of Marinette’s mouth and a dip between her furrowed brows. Small hands cut sheets of dough into circles the size of the cup she's improvising with and confident fingers dip into one of the colourful bowls to scoop a dollop of ground meat. 

“If you stare any harder, she'll feel you,” Alya murmurs teasingly, and Adrien inexplicably feels a flush heating up the back of his neck.

“I'm- well, you could compare the levels of opacity of those dumpling wrappers with-” he sputters, pinned by Alya’s smirk.

Her hazel eyes roll before casting an amused glance back at him. “C’mon, I think we can take a break. It sounds like _you_ need a break.”

“You're just saying that to avoid the work,” Adrien laughs.

Alya doesn't even try to argue. “I'm a busy woman! I have a blog to run, places to go, people to see.”

“I'm honoured you even cleared a spot in your busy schedule for me,” he jokes, and grins even wider at Alya’s huff.

“Well, my schedule says it's time for both of us to take a break,” she declares before hopping up. With a languorous stretch, she calls out, “Marinette! Save us from the soul snatching claws of physics.”

“It's not that bad,” Adrien mutters as he rises up as well.

“Well,” Marinette's voice draws them over like a lure, “you're in luck because I'm just about to start wrapping these if you both want to help?”

They don't need further prompting. After a quick wash of the hands, they settle around the high kitchen table and watch intently as Marinette peels a thin circle of dough from a stack and scoops a teaspoon of broth paste to spread in its center. She places a small sphere of moulded ground meat in the middle before her fingers nimbly tug the edges of the wrapper up into an elegant twist. 

The dumpling is presented to enthusiastic applause from him and Alya both, and as they set about mimicking Marinette, Adrien’s appreciation for how effortlessly she put the dumpling together grows the more his falls apart.

“Hey these aren't the same as the last ones you made,” Alya remarks as her wrapper shreds under her ministrations.

“These are xiaolongbao,” Marinette explains as she reaches over to help her out. “I have ingredients for potstickers if you want to make those instead.”

Alya eyes the potsticker in Marinette’s hand with consideration. The wrapper pleats over neatly to resemble waves, a more elegant but complicated process.

“I'll give those a try,” Adrien sighs as he pushes his misshapen dumpling towards Marinette to fix.

Her giggles lift into the air like bubbles, light and playful. It takes no effort at all for her infectious laughter to spread, and physics remains long forgotten as dumplings and potstickers fold together one by one. They joke as they choose whose dumpling is the most creative, and laugh as they select which pot sticker looks most like a smile.

“So, girl,” Alya starts as she deftly folds a dumpling together. Though not as smooth as Marinette’s, it holds together stoutly and sits proudly on the tray with the other completed dumplings. “These designs. I'm all ears.”

Adrien perks up at the reminder. He's seen her pink sketchbook peeking out from her bag but the only drawings he's seen from her are silly doodles on her homework. She's creative; he knows this well. Her icing sugar map and help in the bakery are examples enough, and the dumplings and potstickers she folds and creases together like edible origami even more so. He just considers the fact that his aren't falling apart anymore a victory.

“Actually, I need some advice.” Marinette’s lower lip snags between her teeth and she glances fleetingly at him.

Instead of pulling out her sketchbook like he expects, she plucks a few extra wrappers, round and thin, and overlaps them together on the table. Pinching and arranging briskly, a skirt with rippling pleats unfolds before their eyes.

“Ah,” Adrien nods as he leans over the table to get a better look. A grin splits his face. “A circle skirt?”

Alya guffaws and Marinette blows the flour dusting the table up into a cloud in retaliation, but Adrien’s too busy laughing at his own joke to do more than wave his hands to clear the air.

“I _guess_ ,” Marinette pouts ineffectively. The corners of her mouth keep twitching into a smile. “It could be that. I don’t know what I should do about the hem. Like I was thinking, casual, high waisted with a large band-” she cuts a broad strip and lays it at the top of the skirt, “-and gathers cinched near the top so it comes down in draped waves. But maybe it should be asymmetrical? High-low?” She shoots Adrien an amused glance. “Circle?”

“You look good in anything,” Alya declares. “But I think maybe circle would be nice. Are you using that blue gradient fabric you got last week?”

A finger taps on Marinette’s chin thoughtfully as she nods almost absent-mindedly. Her brow furrows as she considers the dough skirts laid between cities of dumplings and potstickers.

“I think circle would be great, too,” Adrien agrees. “A gradient fabric you said? Circle would be full and simple enough to bring attention to the use of colour, rather than the cut of the skirt.” He smiles faintly as Marinette’s eyes lift to look at him intently. _Blue_ , he thinks, _is a beautiful colour_. “I hear a lot of this kind of thing from work.”

He certainly doesn’t see this kind of process though. Any designs that he catches glimpses of in their initial planning stages are always drawn and pinned up on boards, professional and clean and stark. Marinette’s methods are unconventional; but he admires that about her. She doesn’t think like anyone else he knows but her problem-solving is remarkable; better, memorable.

No, he amends his thoughts. He does know of another whose creative thinking he admires greatly. As he watches Marinette’s tongue poke out when she creates another skirt out of more dumpling wrappers, he thinks she and Ladybug could be good friends.

Blue eyes squint at the new skirt folded on the table before brightening with purpose. “Yeah, I think you guys are right! I’ll go with circle.”

“Don’t stay up too late working again,” Alya mothers her good-naturedly.

“You’re always up late too, working on the Ladyblog,” Marinette banters back playfully. “You always text back even when it’s like three in the morning.”

Drawn by the shaking of Adrien’s head, Alya tsks him and waves a finger in front of his nose. “You can’t make that face. I know for a fact that you and Nino are up just as late playing games online together too.”

“Ok, so we all have terrible sleeping habits,” he concedes with a laugh.

“Some of us just manage to wake up in time for class,” Alya ribs, and joins in laughing when Marinette shoots her an affronted look.

“That’s it, you’re getting the most burnt of the potstickers and the lumpiest xiaolongbao to eat,” Marinette sniffs, though her eyes sparkle as she transfers a number of the dumplings from the trays onto a high rimmed plate. She fills a large wok with water, rests a rack in the middle, and sets the plate right in the center, before covering the setup with the wok’s lid. 

As she turns the stove on and leaves the dumplings to steam, she selects a few potstickers and prepares a pan to fry them in. It doesn’t take long before the mouthwatering aroma of meat and broth saturates the air. Breathing the scent in is almost as good as taking a bite.

It’s times like these that Adrien understands why Plagg is so enamoured with cheese. The warm smells settle around him like a memory that’s faintly familiar but unmistakably significant.

The first bite of potstickers elicits sighs from them all. The first bite of xiaolongbao backfires on Alya as she sinks her teeth right into it, spraying Adrien with broth. Marinette about keels over in her chair from hollering before showing her the correct way of eating it.

Amidst his own laughter, Adrien wipes his face clean and delicately bites into the xiaolongbao cradled by his soup spoon. He did the same thing when his Chinese teacher brought some as a treat. It seems like a rite of passage, for the first time to go so awry, so he has no trouble enjoying Alya’s look of surprise and shock and Marinette’s peals of laughter.

Alya’s quick quips keeps them all on their toes and Marinette’s smile banishes gloom of the rainy day. The last time Adrien had been so breathless from laughter was when he whirled around tables of éclairs, with chocolate and pigtails and a booming voice, singing.

He’s been in the boulangerie-pâtisserie and now he’s experienced Marinette’s living space. He wonders why he ever thought them as separate in his mind because the welcome and warmth, the laughter and ease in them both are one and the same.

They both feel like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to switch between cuisines in each chapter, alternating between French and Chinese. Cheated a bit in chapter one since fruit tarts are pretty universal. Thought dumplings would be appropriate since the process of making them seems closer to baking than cooking- or at least, I find it to be so!
> 
> Physics was my least favourite subject in school; when I left, I kissed it goodbye without a second thought and never looked back... until now. Karma. I'm shaking my fists at you.


	4. macarons

The fourth time Adrien returns, he doesn’t. Not exactly. 

From behind glass windows, assortments of bright and colourful macarons and petit fours sparkle enticingly at him. Adrien allows himself only a fleeting glance at them from across the park before he looks straight ahead at the camera and relaxes into a practiced smile.

He is so close, yet so far.

The camera clicks without abandon, buzzing around the air with Piero’s cries of “ _Magnifico_!” “The _spaghetti_ , Adrien, the _spaghetti_!” and “Like _gli Americani_ : say cheese!” The sounds circle around him like flies: harmless yet persistent.

Adrien does not feel magnificent (actually he feels rather roasted from standing under the sun all morning long); is still unsure why Piero has such an inclination towards spaghetti (he suspects it’s his strong Italian background); and wonders if Plagg knew just how deeply cheese permeated in every aspect of his life.

“Have some _poise_ , Adrien! I want to feel the _sun_ setting in your eyes!”

Keeping his smile firmly affixed, Adrien shifts his posture into something hopefully more graceful, hopefully more purposeful, hopefully more confident.

Have poise? The only thing he has right now is a headache.

Piero clucks as he peers over the camera, scrutinizing Adrien. His fingers start picking at the black straps of his suspenders, a telltale sign of his dissatisfaction. After a moment, he sighs and straightens up, flapping his hands in dismissal.

“Go take a break, get powdered, go change, we’ll start again in fifteen,” he huffs, but softens when Adrien gives him a small, tired smile in thanks before ducking in one of the tents set up nearby to change.

He is tired. He is always tired, but today exhaustion lines every tendon and muscle and fills his head with wool. He is tired in a way that he knows he will have to cope with later in private, lest his father should find out and conclude that his schedule has been too taxing, too demanding. Even amidst the marathon of photoshoots and lessons that cram his day tight to bursting, he knows the first thing to go will likely be school or anything related to his classmates- his friends.

So Adrien only exhales, long and slow, and rolls his shoulders back until the movement ripples down his spine, loosening his limbs and stretching him out like a cat.

Plagg zips out of a nearby bag and does a few lazy barrel rolls as Adrien wearily changes into the next outfit. A patch of sunlight warms the canvas ground of the tent and Plagg dips down into the heat, purring with contentment and twitching his long whiskers.

“You should take a nap. Eat some cheese. Find _me_ some cheese.” The kwami stretches lazily out in the sun and blinks sleepy green eyes at him, narrowed and glowing in the light.

A heavy sigh billows out, and instead of ungracefully flopping down in the sun to join Plagg like he wants to, Adrien settles carefully on a nearby chair, conscious of keeping his clothes neat and clean.

“I brought you enough Camembert to last the day, and extra Brie for backup,” he retorts, but there's no bite to his words. He knows Plagg is helping in his own way by trying to distract him. “If you've finished it all by now, then I'm surprised you're not in a food coma.”

Although the way Plagg rolls so he's belly up in the sun, languid and relaxed, suggests otherwise. Not ready to face the makeup artist and hairstylist awaiting to tackle him with their armoury of brushes and combs, Adrien slides his phone out of his bag and checks for any messages.

None, unfortunately. Even more unfortunate is the sight of Nino’s last few texts to him, and his subsequent replies.

[ _hey dude u free to hang out later?_ ]

[ Today? I really wish, but I got a photoshoot that'll last me all morning, maybe afternoon, then piano after. ]

[ _aw but its so nice out_ ]

[ I know… trust me, I know. ]

[ _man that blows for u but dont sweat it. we’ll hang another time_ ]

He tosses his phone carelessly towards the vicinity of his bag and slumps carefully down. Modeling is a job that he doesn't mind; he even enjoys it to an extent, though most of his compliance comes from the fact that it makes his father happy. Most days, that's enough to keep Adrien smiling, keep him buoyant.

Petulance isn't an emotion he wears often, but it's one that settles on his shoulders every once in a while like a devil come calling. It doesn't seem like much, to want a day with nothing to do, nowhere to go, in the company of friends under the spring sun.

“You should eat some cheese,” Plagg suggests yet again, twirling up to offer a piece of Brie to him.

Adrien lets a tired smile curl across his face, one he'd never show in front of a camera.

“And deprive _you_ of cheese? The good thing about you eating everything is that I won't smell like feet going home for once.”

Plagg shrugs and swallows the wedge whole, a sight that still makes Adrien's stomach lurch. The thought of swallowing a piece of food the size of his head in one go is a daunting one, to say the least.

Unbidden, the sight of tantalizing bite-sized macarons and petit fours rises in his mind. They are so close- just right across the park- and yet...

The chair rocks back on its hind legs as Adrien stands abruptly. After a quick check at Plagg and finding him zipping back to the bag to eat and nap, he strides out of the tent, determined to let the “ _sun_ set” in his eyes and wrap the photoshoot up so the day can hurry to an end. At least the night will bring relief in the form of patrol and whistling winds and the magnetic presence of dear Ladybug.

Just being around her always soothes, if not energizes and rejuvenates him. Her own personal charm, one that is as much a part of Ladybug as it is the girl behind the mask, whoever she is; and one he counts himself lucky to be privy to.

“Adrien!” A distant cry casts out and hooks into him, drawing his attention to a waving arm at the far end of the park. Nino grins at him, teeth bright against the dark of his skin, glasses glinting and baseball cap sitting sloppily on his head.

Even from across the park, Alya’s good-natured eyeroll is visible before she reaches over to twist his cap on straight. Ignoring Nino’s yelp of surprise, she turns and offers a wave at her own to Adrien. Marinette sets a large, packed basket next to the both of them under the shade of a tree before beaming brightly and waving dazedly at him.

The wish to join them settles heavily on Adrien’s shoulders, dragging them down into a slump; but only momentarily, because the sight of his friends and their proximity to him does wonders for his mood.

Like the boulangerie-pâtisserie, they are close enough to be real, and their enthusiastic greeting to him settles in his stomach as pleasantly as macarons. A toothy grin lifts his cheeks up and curves his eyes into crescents as he waves back.

“ _There!_ ” Piero’s voice jabs right into Adrien’s face a moment before the photographer himself seemingly materializes in front of him. “ _That_ is the look I’ve been waiting for!”

He herds Adrien back towards the fountain, leaving the makeup artist, hair stylist, and the Gorilla trailing after them in disgruntlement. After a moment and a considering glance at the other side of the park, he repositions Adrien until his eyeline collides with tangled headphones, ombré curls, and vivid blue eyes.

“ _Fantastico!_ ” Piero declares before stepping back and setting his camera and lights up. The hair stylist and makeup artist swoop in like birds of prey, touching up Adrien’s palette and fussing with his carefully styled hair with fierce concentration. The moment Piero straightens up and claps his hands, they are already gone, leaving Adrien to wait patiently for his instructions.

It doesn’t take much instruction for Adrien to recline against the lid of the fountain, a genuine smile on his lips and a sense of weightlessness threading through his limbs and burning out his exhaustion.

Where the actions had felt like a chore earlier, he arranges himself with purpose now that he knows there are those he cares about watching. He doesn’t want to disappoint with a poor performance.

“The camera _loves_ you! _Stupendo_!” Piero declares as he weaves himself around Adrien in constant motion, pausing only to readjust the pose or to instruct a pose change.

The careful positioning of the limbs, the familiar arcing of the spine, the tilt of the head, those are all routine. Adrien’s done this long enough that his poses are second-nature to him, that angling his body precisely to camera to achieve the most flattering effect is habitual.

It’s the smile, this time around, that’s different. The one he wears isn’t quite the practiced curve with articulated edges, nor is it the closed smirk tucked full of secrets. It’s not the polite grin that hides all his nerves, and it’s not the cheeky jaunt that sometimes exaggerates his bravado.

It’s not a smile that he wears at all, but one that blooms up from the dark of his lungs and unfurls to the surface. Keeping it up is effortless; one look at his friends has his smile growing wider, his eyes catching the brightness of the sun and sparkling back.

Piero crows his delight at the success of his pictures, but all Adrien focuses on is the thumbs up Nino sends, the fist pump Alya gives, and the cute little wave Marinette never stops doing. The unpacked basket rests at their feet but they seem more intent on cheering him on than keeping to themselves, and he’s entirely touched by their support.

The sudden absence of the camera’s clicks draws Adrien’s attention back to Piero, who reviews the photos on the camera’s screen with enthused satisfaction. Piero’s knuckles slide along the edge of his jaw, a positive gesture that Adrien always imagined as the flamboyant photographer’s equivalent of a purr.

“ _Perfetto_!” he announces.

Like a signal, the Gorilla moves forward, ready to collect Adrien and whisk him off back home. His movements halt at Piero’s splayed hand across his broad chest, but his flat stare does little to deter Piero’s tsking.

“The lights! You must help me with them,” Piero insists, not giving an inch when the Gorilla doesn’t budge. After a moment, the burly bodyguard gives in and moves away to dismantle one of the softboxes set up around the fountain.

Piero only shoots Adrien a wink before striding towards the Gorilla. “Gently, _slowly_ , or I will be lighting Adrien with a crêpe next time!”

The continuous stream of instruction bogs the Gorilla down as much as it nudges Adrien into motion. He tosses a bright grin at Piero who glances fleetingly back at him before slipping away to join Nino, Alya, and Marinette. 

“Dude, that looked great!” Nino is the first to greet him as he walks up. “It didn’t look like it took long at all.”

“Thanks to you guys, really,” Adrien chuckles, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you were planning on coming here.”

“Nino’s idea,” Alya chimes in. Adrien beams and completes the fist bump Nino offers. “Then we decided to make it a thing so…” Her sentence dangles as she turns to Marinette, clearly expecting her to pick up the end.

“The basket!” Marinette blurts out, and flushes red when Alya smacks her forehead. “We, um, packed some food for you! Us? To... share?”

“C’mon, sit down already, there are éclairs in there that I know are calling my name,” Nino laughs while patting the empty spot in the loose circle they had formed.

Needing no further invitation, Adrien seats himself carefully on the grass, mindful of gaining any stains.

Words never make their way out as Nino and Marinette open the basket up and the enticing scent of sugar and chocolate curls through the air; lungs become much busier with deep inhalations and appreciative sighs.

The smell, now familiar and woven through with fond experiences, shoots through Adrien like a lightning bolt. One inhale unearths the memory of chocolate chip dots and smudged icing sugar, of melted chocolate and the weight of flour, of cinnamon and air kisses. They wash up in the shore of his mind, all a jumble and yet uniquely distinct, as vivid and tactile as the originals.

A second inhale has him sifting, has him compulsively listing each moment in his mind-

\- and the chatter from Nino and Alya rises up and reclaims his focus, halting his counting.

He stops, because the fear of this ending- of visiting the boulangerie-pâtisserie, of laughing with Marinette and her family, with Alya and Nino, of tentatively warming himself in the sunlight of the places he’s still learning feels like home- dissipates.

They will always be there with open doors, enticing smells, gentle air kisses, outstretched fist bumps, and silly dances.

It's not the place, he realizes, but the people. The smells, the warmth, the laughter. The fact that they pat at the empty spot as if he’d always been there. As if they’d always been waiting for him.

Marinette beams at him, freckles scattered like stars across the pink of her cheeks. She offers him a macaron.

“Hungry?”

His fingers slide against hers as he accepts.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! This was all originally written as a long one-shot composed of four drabbles but each section grew big enough to sit as their own chapter, so what the story bade, I acquiesced. Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and tags and messages; my cheeks hurt from how much I've been smiling at your kind words! 
> 
> I'm working on a few new fics, one that's quite a long departure from this sort of fluffiness. Hope to see some of you around again then :) 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Feel free to poke at me on [tumblr](http://matchaball.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!

**Author's Note:**

> This is told in four parts, and for anyone who's been with me since my Naruto days, you know multi-chapter stories and I are not friends. That being said, I actually wrote everything out already so there's no three month long waiting period for the next installment :) 
> 
> Come poke at me on [tumblr](http://matchaball.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


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